


let's make a mess, lioness

by rillrill



Series: twilight of the mortals [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 17:22:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She can see Cersei's jaw shift, the grind of her teeth nearly audible in the empty restroom (or is that her imagination too?). Her heartbeat sharpens in her chest. Yes, Joffrey is so much like his mother.</i>
</p><p>Modern/American politics AU. An encounter with the First Lady that leaves Margaery stirred, if not shaken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's make a mess, lioness

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my drafts for a while but finally decided to pull it out and fine-tune it now that I'm opening up this universe again. Thought it would be fun to widen the scope from just the Starks given how much is already established. Next stop: Tyrell/Lannister-ville.

It’s raining in D.C., and there’s a party. A dinner, actually. The White House Correspondents Dinner, which has transitioned over the years from a private party with the Washington press to a B-list celebrity gala. 

The First Lady’s dress is crimson. As per usual. She has never seen Cersei dress for a formal event in any other color. On one level, it makes sense - Republican president, the First Lady should wear red as well. But Cersei Lannister never wears patriotic flag-stripe reds. She lives in bloody scarlets and wine burgundies, a visual warning with every step. Gold jewelry, gold embroidery, but knives in her eyes that flash steel when she speaks.

Margaery smooths the skirt of her own emerald gown as she stands with the rest of the room. The WHCD is the kind of party she loathes: half an hour of weak jokes from some late-night comic, pretending to laugh at Robert's half-sloshed delivery of the one-liners his speechwriters worked for weeks to perfect, and then at least two more hours of smiling for cameras and performing just enough PDA to give the DC gossip blogs something to write about the next morning. Joffrey is beside her, in a crimson tie to match his mother's dress, but he's ill-tempered and short tonight. Something about a dealer and a friend fucking him over. Margaery doesn't have the patience to hear it out.

Earlier, she walked the press line with Joff on her arm, answered questions about the Tyrell Foundation's recent six-figure donations to food banks across the country. It was an initiative she had spearheaded, after all, as part of the Foundation's commitment to ending childhood hunger - a safe, nonthreatening party line, one that wouldn't interfere with the Baratheon administration's hardline on “government handouts.” No one could argue with helping starving kids, or at least so she thought. And the polls agreed. The President might be a slobby drunk, and the First Lady an out-of-touch one-percenter, but the First Son dating a young philanthropist from the 30-under-30 set—it looked good.

So all the photo ops with soldiers' families and handing out healthy meals at inner-city schools are worth it. She's her grandmother's heir, set to inherit leadership of the foundation as soon as she retires, and if Loras wants to waste his life playing tennis and recording terrible electropop, she's fine with that. Willas and Garlan can back her up behind the scenes. As soon as Joff proposes - and she knows it's coming, because if he wants any political career of his own he'd be an idiot to dump the most likable wife imaginable - she'll be halfway there.

But shit, she is tired of this party.

At least she looks good, she thinks, taking up her champagne flute with a small clink as her cocktail rings make contact with the glass stem. She didn't make the Vanity Fair best-dressed list this year for nothing. The style writers love her like they love Cersei, which is to say that they’re regarded as minor style icons simply for bringing a bit of flair to the grey pantsuit no-man’s-land of D.C. “They're bringing style back to the Rose Garden,” gushed one profile. “You know, I always thought the White House could use a little color,” she quipped to another. Between Cersei's Oscar de la Renta and her own Thakoon, they'll be good for another front-page slideshow on Vogue's website tomorrow.

Another shower of flashbulbs as they applaud Robert’s descent from the stage. Margaery pastes on a smile. Showtime.

*

She’s in the restroom alone, fixing her hair in front of the mirror, having just narrowly escaped a television producer who seems hell-bent on recruiting her to some reality show he’s pitching. The party has begun to wind down, but her caramel curls are still glossy and her undereyes are free of mascara smudges, so she’s willing to call the night a success. With a sigh, she tucks her clutch beneath her arm and turns for the door, but it immediately bursts open, revealing Cersei, looking irritated and holding up the hem of her dress in one hand with a wine glass in the other.

“Where's Joffrey?”

Margaery shrugs as she throws back the last of her own drink. “I think he's gone. Took off after we had our photo taken by Vanity Fair.”

Cersei heaves a sigh. “I thought you two were supposed to leave together.”

Margaery sets down her glass on the bathroom counter and shifts her box clutch to hold it in both hands as she turns back toward the mirror. “Well, we're not,” she says, unsnapping the clasp. “That wasn't my decision to make tonight. I'll leave with Loras and have his driver make an extra stop.”

“Your brother and my brother-in-law made their exit about fifteen minutes ago,” Cersei says dryly. “Hand in hand and playing grab-ass, if my memory serves, in front of God and all the photographers in the District.”

“That's lovely for them,” Margaery smiles, digging through her clutch and taking out her lipstick. The gold tube clicks open and she twists up the shimmery rose taupe. “And for you. Might make the administration look a bit more tolerant.”

Cersei sucks in a hissing breath. “As far as the administration goes, it's an embarrassment.”

“Please. Renly's running for mayor of New York. His personal life is a matter of public record. Perhaps you saw that New York Magazine profile this week?”

“I did,” Cersei says. “If I remember, you were quoted rather extensively.”

Margaery arches a brow. “Yes. Ren and I are close.”

“Evidently.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying. We did non-profit work together before he was elected to City Council. I know you're more than aware of Renly’s orientation. I promise you, we never had more than a single bad date in college.” With a second click, she closes her lipstick and drops it back into her clutch, then reaches for one of the thick paper towels on the counter. Cersei’s hand snaps over hers, effectively trapping it there, blood-red nails digging into Margaery’s tanned skin.

Cersei's teeth are blindingly laser-white, and her canines are surprisingly pointed, more like fangs this close. Her eyes bore into Margaery’s as she digs her nails in a little harder and growls in her ear. “I don't know what a little whore like you wants to do with my son. I don't know, and I don't trust you, but I can promise you one thing: you will _never_ be a part of this family.”

Her mouth suddenly feels cotton-dry. Margaery swallows, tries to slide her hand out from beneath Cersei's, but is rewarded with a tighter grip. Joffrey and his mother have so much in common, but he could always be defused, manipulated into aiming his poison and rage elsewhere. But Cersei’s a pulsing nuclear reactor, glowing gold instead of green, and Margaery's not sure whether it's her imagination or whether her touch actually burns.

“Mrs. Baratheon—”

“Ms. Lannister.”

“Not very traditional, is that?” Margaery can't help herself. The words slip out, and without warning, Cersei slaps her hard across the cheek.

It shocks more than it hurts, but Margaery lifts a hand to her face nonetheless, stunned. She can see Cersei's jaw shift, the grind of her teeth nearly audible in the empty restroom (or is that her imagination too?). Her heartbeat sharpens in her chest. Yes, Joffrey is so much like his mother. 

“You little slut,” Cersei hisses. “You can prance around, pretending to be some nice little WASP from the Upper East Side with your _monograms_ and your _Spence reunions_ , but you don’t fool me. My son deserves better than a Tyrell whore. If your plan is to get knocked up and hitch yourself to our family, you can disabuse yourself of that notion right away, because Joffrey will never marry you.”

“It takes one to know one, doesn’t it?” Margaery says bitterly, emboldened by the night’s worth of liquor and itching for a fight. “Do you honestly think you’re any better than me? Haven’t you fucked your way through your husband’s rolodex? And, by the way, your son has about as much interest in fucking me as he does in joining the military. We’ve had sex twice in the past two years. I couldn’t even get him interested in hookers. I’m starting to think that everything I’ve heard about your family might be true.” 

Cersei’s eyes flash, and she raises her hand again, but Margaery is too fast, and catches it in midair. There’s a momentary struggle before Margaery digs her own nails into Cersei’s flesh, and the older woman manages to slam Margaery’s hand down on the bathroom counter. She pins it down there, and Margaery grinds her molars as she stares into burning emerald eyes and holds her ground.

When Cersei speaks, her voice comes out a growl. “How dare you,” she spits, and repeats it again for effect. “How _dare_ you imply that there is anything— _abnormal_ —about my family...”

“But there is, isn’t there?” Margaery says. “I’ve always thought that Joffrey looked more like his uncle Jaime than anyone else…”

“Jaime and I are _twins_.”

“Oh, yes, and that’s what makes it so nasty, right?”

Her hand is still pinned beneath Cersei’s, and Margaery sucks in a breath as she struggles to pull away, to no avail. There are undoubtedly at least two or three Secret Service agents stationed just outside the door, and the last thing she needs is for them to burst in, guns drawn, if the First Lady screams for them. Cersei pushes a knee between Margaery’s legs, forcing them apart, and grabs a handful of long, silky waves. She threads her hand through her hair and yanks, pulling Margaery’s head back to bare her pale throat, and the jolt of pain sends a secondary pulse of pleasure shuddering through her. It’s wrong, everything about this is dirty and wrong, pushed up against a bathroom counter while her boyfriend’s cold, sadistic mother holds her down and toys with her like this, but she’s always had a taste for filth like this.

Cersei lifts her other hand and grabs at Margaery’s throat, but she doesn’t squeeze tightly enough to do damage, just digs in her nails there as she grinds her knee up against— _oh. God_. The thin straps of Margaery’s dress threaten to fall off her shoulders as they’ve done all night, and Cersei lets the left one slide down leaving Margaery half-exposed as she churns under Cersei’s hands. She feels dwarfed by this lioness in red-bottomed stilettos, and yes, everything about it is filthy and wrong and Margaery allows the shame and filth to settle in her veins like hot sticky caramel and all she wants is more. Cersei has Jaime’s height and his hands, long and wide yet somehow delicate and thin, and the one on her throat tightens slightly as the other traces the outline of her mouth, thumbing Margaery’s bottom lip and barely pressing inside. 

“Fuck you,” Margaery hisses, bucking her hips against Cersei’s knee as a challenge. “What are you doing?”

“Conducting an experiment,” Cersei says coldly, still not moving. “Yes. I understand, now.”

And with that, as quickly as it started, it’s over, with no further explanation. Cersei’s hands are gone and she’s running them under the faucet and patting dry with a stack of paper towels to remove the lipstick smear of evidence. With a click of heels on the tile floor, she’s leaving the bathroom, and Margaery takes a breath, runs a hand through her hair and glances behind her in the mirror. 

Her lipstick is a mess. Time for a touch-up.


End file.
